


The Words I Don't Say

by Blue Rose (HailsRose)



Category: Devil May Cry
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dadgil week, Father-son fluff - Freeform, Gen, Some Swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-10
Updated: 2019-11-10
Packaged: 2021-01-27 07:02:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21388051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HailsRose/pseuds/Blue%20Rose
Summary: In which Vergil remembers how Nero came into his life and he remembers how long it took to get to this point with his son.
Relationships: Dante & Nero (Devil May Cry), Dante & Vergil (Devil May Cry), Nero & Vergil (Devil May Cry)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 185





	The Words I Don't Say

**Author's Note:**

> *banging pots and pans together* IT'S DADGIL WEEK

_ “Where the hell are you going?” _

_ —————— _

The exclamation was poignant, enough to spark the blaze of a memory as Vergil absently tapped a lead pencil against the desk.

_ —————— _

_ “Inside. To get my son. Where else would I be going?” _

_ The orphanage looks less like a beat down, old place for housing parentless children and more like an ornate yet decrepit and crumbling lodge. A piece of aging <strike>hell</strike> heaven tucked away between the castle town and the monstrous mountains that separate it from the citadel on the cliffs. The first floor is aglow with lights, inviting those who cannot see and cannot know into a pocket of warmth. _

_ Vergil stomps through the snow. He tears the doors open, almost taking them off their hinges, and strides inside, sleek cloak billowing behind him. Dante has the decency to close them but Vergil wastes no time on pleasantries or politeness. All he can think about is his son. _ ** _His son. _ ** _ One he didn’t know he had until all of forty-eight hours ago and dragged Dante into retrieving. He slams his hands onto the desk and demands for his kin. _

_ “I’m looking for a child.” _

_ “Most people who come here are,” The woman behind the desk says sweetly. Her voice drips black licorice and cotton sugar and it makes Vergil want to carve her throat out. She turns her eyes to him then to his brother, who is slowly making his way toward the conversation, then back to him. Vergil is used to staring, there are countless reasons for it. Appearance, demeanor, the out of place way the atmosphere shivered around his figure. Pick a random slip from a top hat, the words on it would probably qualify for the level of weirdness he and Dante possessed. “Although our program doesn’t extend to outsiders.” _

_ Well, that’s new. _

_ Dante coughs awkwardly. “Yeah, we figured. But uh, we’re an exception. We have permission.” _

_ The lie is so blatantly obvious, Vergil has no idea how the receptionist doesn’t immediately see right through it. _

_ “Written permission? From His Holiness?” _

_ “Yep,” Dante replies, popping the last syllable. He makes a show of looking for the nonexistent permission in the pockets in his coat. “If you’ll just give me a minute to find it- Ah, shoot. I think I left it in my other coat. My bad.” _

_ “I need to see written permission before I let you adopt a child from our program.” _

_ Dante blows out a puff of air and with an elegance that he rarely shows, pushes Vergil to the side so he can lean on the desk, gloved hands intertwined. A charming smile pulls his lips upward while batting his eyelashes pulls his gaze downward. _

_ “Listen, sweetheart,” He starts off. Vergil scoffs at the same time the receptionist does. Dante’s flirting skills have always been subpar at best. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’ll fail here just as it does everywhere else. But halfway into it, he seems to figure that out on his own and changes course. “We’ve had a long day. We don’t even have to adopt the kid right now. How about we just meet him?” _

_ “You know what child you’re looking for? How-” _

_ “Nero. His name is Nero.” Dante interrupts her before the questioning can go on any longer and she thinks about calling the local authorities. Which, in this case, would be the Order Knights, a group that neither of them wants to tangle with if they can help it. Dad’s fanatics are better left undisturbed for multiple reasons. _

_ Fortunately, or unfortunately, the woman is so taken aback by the name that she drops her inquiry. How she talks about the child next is enough to make Vergil’s blood boil. The inside of his gut churns like a thundering gale on a raging sea, lightning splitting the sky apart. _

_ “That one? You want that one?” _

**_That one?_**_ Of course, he wants _**_that one._** **_That one_**_ is his child. _**_That one _**_is his son. _**_That one_**_ is his Nero. _

_ “Yes, we want Nero,” Vergil grinds out slowly. _

_ The woman’s gaze slips back to him. When they connect, he sees a fear in her eyes that he’s only known when little demons are wrought with guilt. The air shatters, Dante’s hand is already on the woman’s which is on the handle of a dial-up phone. The tension strings itself so tight, a kitchen knife would struggle to cut through it. _

_ “Unhand me,” She hisses out. “I have to call the authorities.” _

_ “Let’s not and say we did,” Dante says. _

_ Neither of them has any idea what they did to get the receptionist so riled up but they think it has something to do with Nero—he’s unique. Notorious. And one way or another, the Order needs him. A bone-chilling realization in and of itself. It’s not even counting all the possibilities of why or what else could want him for similar reasons. Although Vergil suspects real soon that the latter is about to reveal itself and two things happen blindingly fast. First, a small child with fluffy, white hair appears at the top of the stairs. Vergil’s breath is stolen from his lungs, his chest squeezes at the sight. The boy's appearance, his voice, it all belongs to Sparda. It all belongs to him. _

_ “Ms. Sara? What’s going on?” _

_ Second, the front of the lodge explodes. Clouds of cold wrap around the lobby, bringing the intense bristling of Frosts showering down. Dante and Vergil immediately draw their weapons, going on the offense before the situation can escalate any further. They each cut a demon down, the slashes are quicker than the bold glint that reflects off their steel. _

_ Meanwhile, Nero is frozen to the top of the stairs, hands balled up at his side. He’s younger than one initially thought. Five, maybe six. He’s smart enough that when the Frosts screech out the name of his island’s supposed deity, he snaps out of it and is gone in a flash. The heavy pounding of Vergil’s boots carries across the lobby and up the stairs as he chases after his son. The sounds of the fight fade away, that including Dante shouting at him to come back and help him fight the next barrage of demons, _ ** _asshole!_ ** _ But his mind is solely fixed on finding Nero. _

_ Vergil is just fast enough to keep up. A dumbwaiter secured in the center of the wall at the end of the corridor flings shut so loudly, it’s any wonder that there aren’t more people rousing from their slumber and rubbing their eyes awake. He warps more than walks there and slides the dumbwaiter up. Later down the line, Dante will make fun of him for not expecting the ear-rending scream that Vergil gets when Nero first lays eyes on him. _

_ “DEMON!!” He shrieks at the top of his lungs. Vergil makes a move to wrestle him out of the dumbwaiter. Nero screams louder; kicks, hits, flails, even bites down on Vergil’s wrist in a futile—albeit adorable—attempt to get free. _

_ “Nero-” Vergil tries. “Nero, hold on a second, listen-” Nero jams his foot against Vergil’s face and loosens the grip long enough to briefly slip out before he’s grabbed by the wrist. Vergil holds his nose, trying desperately to suppress the pain and the water that inevitably wells up in his eyes. Because that’s what happens when you assault someone’s nose. _

_ —————— _

Nero was stronger than either of them thought he was or was going to be, that much he knew for certain now. He retained that visage after all this time, small but powerful. 

_ —————— _

_ “Cry?” Nero’s voice is barely above a whisper. His bright eyes are as wide as saucers, his body’s locked up aside from the heavy rise and fall of his chest as he dares catch his breath. “You’re crying. Demons don’t cry.” _

_ Vergil almost rockets off into an explanation about how he’s not crying, it’s just his system’s physical reaction to being kicked in the face. He’s familiar with the notion, if only because he used to do something similar to his brother during their brawls when they were little. Eva always admonished him for making Dante cry, even when both twins knew those crocodile tears were anything but stemming from genuine hurt. However slowly, doors are beginning to open, sleepy heads are beginning to poke out, the stares of unwanted children were going to be on them at any minute. It’s that fact and Dante swearing like a sailor that rips Vergil from his past and slams him back onto the material plane. _

_ “You’re right, they don’t.” _

_ He lets go of Nero’s wrist and cups his cheeks, bringing them face to face. It’s then that he gets a finer look at his son’s appearance. Underneath his touch, he’s so much smaller than anticipated. He’s as pale as the moon, with rosy spots that flower signs of life. Streaks of dirt and grime smother his hair, cheeks, and arms. And his eyes are a clear blue that pierces through an otherwise dusty veil. _

_ His mind searches for something else to say, claws deep into every visceral pit it knows, stringing together useless words for a first meeting that has already gone so awry, there’s no recovering from it. He breathes out, hands shaking, air twisting as the broken perfection of the moment continues to sidle away, and… _

_ ...he headbutts Nero so hard he blacks out. _

_ Vergil carefully maneuvers Nero’s limp body into a comfortable position, using his wool-lined cloak to shield him from the cold. He hurries back down the corridor and stairs, not even gripping the ridiculousness or idiocy of what it is he’s just done. The lobby is, predictably, chaos, with the final demon dissolving into a burbling white and grey plash of goo. Slash marks and bullet holes litter everything, shards of glass poke out of the frames where windows once were, the receptionist is nowhere to be found but her desk is splintered into two pieces, suggesting something terrible has happened but nothing that he cares for. _

_ “Dante, let’s go!” _

_ His brother takes one look at the unconscious kid in Vergil’s arms and immediately starts on another cursing fit. The swearing follows the three of them down the city streets, it mingles with the urban townhouses and falling snow, blurring by until they’re boarding the first ferry off that hell-island. _

* * *

Vergil kept at tapping his pencil against his desk, quietly in rhythm. The only light in the room was the lamp illuminating his research—disheveled papers, ancient texts with worn-out spines, loose utensils, none of which he could be bothered to examine. More and more these days his mind would travel to the past, he would think of Nero, tottering his way through the days in that orphanage, murmurs of how he’s strange, unusual, unwanted sticking to him like unsweetened pine sap. He would think of the Frosts that galloped in, seeking to strike down Sparda’s poisonous bloodline, of how any demon would be lavished in praise and power for being the one to do the honors. Of course, those old memories brought the incessant urge to search for demons, one that could never be tamed by a quick patrol at dawn or dusk anymore. 

He stretched his limbs up and his demonic instincts out, scanning for things that went bump in the night, the scratch and scramble of alleyway critters, the flutter of things in the gutter that shouldn’t be there. None of it was dangerous, save for one thing: Nero, tiptoeing up the stairs at this ungodly hour to sneak past him. 

“You shouldn’t be awake,” Vergil said, turning in his chair. 

Nero sighed and straightened, forgoing what semblance of slyness he thought he must have had. He had grown taller, matured with as much grace as someone in their most formative years could have. He was lanky and thin, most clothes tended to hang off him. His hair was still fluffy and snowy, not yet making way for the silken locks that Dante and Vergil had in their adulthood. 

“I could say the same of you,” Nero returned. He came around the rail, going on his path to the kitchen. He rifled around in the top cabinets, pushing aside plastic bowls and plates. 

“I’m researching,” Vergil said. No in-depth explanation needed, Nero usually didn’t care for whatever his pops was reading about. “What’s your excuse?”

“Need water.” Nero waved the plastic cup around. 

_ ‘I had a nightmare.’ _

Nero didn’t say those last words aloud but they hung there nonetheless, patiently waiting to be acknowledged, comforted. The nozzle went on, off, then he tilted back half the glass. 

“Water?” Vergil repeated. 

_ ‘How bad?’ _

“Yeah, water. What, is a guy not allowed to get a glass of water in his own house anymore?”

_ ‘Really bad.’ _

Wordlessly, Vergil rose from his seat and trailed into the kitchen. He expected the way Nero eyed him warily, as he usually did, and cautiously pulled his hand through his son’s locks until they were smoothed back on his head. He pressed his lips to Nero’s forehead. To no one else did he share this softness and love, to no else did he bear his heart. Only Nero was privy to his soothing side for things such as nightmares and the desperate longing of serenity given by a parent. 

“You know I’d never let anything bad happen to you.” Words that Vergil no longer had to search for or think about entered the kitchen, dousing them both in cool relief, sounding out of place to those who neither knew nor spoke their nonverbal language. _'You're under my protection.’_

Nero’s face reddened all the way to the tips of his ears and he pawed at his nose.

Like a rose required nourishment and time to reveal it's true beauty, it had years for them to learn how to communicate so delicately and it required coming to terms with the stipulation that understanding needed work. They actually had to talk to each other, not scream or throw tantrums or hiss passive-aggressively underneath their breaths or lock themselves away and _wait_ for the other to understand.

In one such instance, Nero had been antagonized over Vergil keeping the Yamato away from him and the obstinate refusal to explain that the weapon was dangerous and fragile and held sentimentality that Vergil thought unexplainable to a child ended with them both falling to pieces while Vergil worked desperately in a horror ridden state to stop the bleeding. Yamato, in the proverbial sense, had been more than ecstatic to engage with her master's successor. The first fire of a scolding licked Vergil's tongue only to be drowned underneath Nero bursting into tears. Suddenly, Vergil felt more like his father than he ever had in his life. He was Sparda and Nero was him when he was a child, fresh off the training grounds after his first experience with his beloved katana. 

That night had changed the way Vergil connected with Nero and vice versa. Slowly but surely, they worked their way upwards until they could hear when things weren't voiced and know that when one thing was said, there was always something unstated tacked onto it. 

“I’m okay, old man.”

_ 'I know. Thank you.’ _


End file.
